


The Wind, The Rain, And Iron

by Will_I_Ever_Make_A_Sound



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss, kkc
Genre: I still don't know, M/M, What am I doing????, but like, idk - Freeform, in the original universe with magic and stuff, this is some weird sort of post-Apocolypse thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Will_I_Ever_Make_A_Sound/pseuds/Will_I_Ever_Make_A_Sound
Summary: I don't know how to summary except saying that it's set in like an AU future where they never finish writing kvothes story I swear I'll add a better description later





	1. Chapter 1

Silence (A Prolouge) 

 

It was night.   
Everything lay in silence, from the restless seas through the darkened countryside, over hills and through forests, even slipping into the land of the fae. The people were quiet, the animals were quiet, the land was still. Fae that once danced like they had no cares now held their breath. Animals that once chittered now cringed at the sight of the pale moon. People lay in their beds, heads bowed and thoughts rustling, and added a small, grimmer sort of silence to the larger one. Even the soldiers were afraid, watching the unmoving stars from their worn cots, clutching their weapons in their sweaty palms, praying for a miracle. Even the Kings were afraid, pretending that having enough silk sheets, enough warm milk and honey and enough blooming jasmine could let them sleep. Even the Arcanists were afraid, murmuring softly like rustling leaves in the wind as they cast protection spells and flushed out their rooms with light from sympathy lamps. Even the musicians were afraid, clutching their instruments like they would lose them, muttering a prayer as they walked past the shattered cobblestones in Imre, afraid to play even in locked rooms.   
Everything lay in silence, everything lay in fear.  
It had not been so long from when everything was normal. It was no more than a year ago that the sun still shone, children still laughed, and everything was alive. But in that year, the winter had grown colder than ever thought possible, many crops had withered to brown stalks and died, and the fighting had grown bloodier and further spread.   
Now everyone moved quietly, talking with hushed voices, tossing rowan into their fires, asking for Tehlu’s blessing. Now no-one would even think the name Chandrian, let alone joke about it. Now the tales of Kvothe, the fragments still murmured by story tellers, were cautionary tales, full of fear and wrath.   
Night had fallen on the land, and silence came with it.   
The silence, of course, was a silence of three parts.   
The first silence was a weighted silence, one of a working scholar or a writer paused in thought. It was the silence of a weary traveller, stopping at rough inns and scribbling down wills in exchange for a meal and a room. It was the silence of a great story teller that had fallen, for stories were less than welcome now, and of a man who had seen something he regretted and was now desperately trying to forget. It was the silence of someone who had not finished their life's purpose and now seemed lost.  
It was the silence of a worn leather satchel and old but pristine pages of writing that were tucked out of sight but never forgotten.   
The second silence was much more frightening than the first. It was the silence of a storm, wild eyes, a crooked grin. It was the silence of raven black hair and eyes as pale as opals, of running and chasing and hunting, of wildness and a fierce determination, of uncaring of who would get trampled underfoot. It was the silence of a young man who wasn't quite a man, of a shadowed traveller and a dancing sort of grace. It was the silence of charm, illusion, the night sky, and unease. It was of deep forest pools, leather, holy crowns and faint laughter. It was of haunting music and a pale tree blackened by lightning.   
The third silence was less easy to notice. If you listened for hours, you could notice it in the empty alleyways of Tarbean, in the ringing sound that comes after the quiet strumming of a lute, or maybe in a shadow slipping through the quiet corners and seldom used hallways of the University. It was the silence of flame red hair, of bright green eyes. It was the silence of a sword at the waist of a stranger, black and seemingly unused, and of the shattered cobblestones in Imre. It was the silence of deep stone, weathered wood, enchantments and a unplayed instrument. It was the silence of a hero turned villain, of legend turned story. It was the truest silence of the three, that much was obvious. It was not weighty, sagging and secretive like the first silence, nor wild, dark, and dancing like the second. It was not at all like either of them, and yet it was similar, connected. It held dominion over the other two silences, and could quiet them if that was its will. Yet unlike the first silence, that lived on the dusty roads and dirty taverns, or the second silence, which danced on the wind and slipped into chanting rhymes, the third silence lived in the cracks of buildings, the shadows of hoods, grim smiles and between the pages of books.   
The third silence could rarely be described, but it was familiar to all. It was a blanket over the entire land, yet barely heard or found. It was the edge of a blade. It was the centre of a flame. It was the quiet of thought.   
It was the patient, cutflower sound of a man who is waiting to die. 

It was night. Everything lay in silence, and a story was about to begin.


	2. Paper and Ink

In the middle of the darkening countryside, there was an inn.   
It was not a very special inn, just another worn-down rickety sort of building near a tiny village that served thin soup and watery ale for a couple pennies and offered a private room for a iron jot. Many inns had lost their quality or stood empty since the events of the last year. Hard times meant that people didn't have money to spare, which had innkeepers in an unfavourable position. However, some truly stubborn or lazy folks still kept their Inns running, trying to scrape by. This was one as such.   
It was definitely not the place itself that was special, not at all. It was the silence that gathered around it like a swarm of gnats that was special. It was the deep, angled shadows that scattered across the tap room that were special. It was the feeling in the three chairs surrounding the singular weathered table in the centre of the room, simply waiting, that made it special. It was not the place. It was what would happen there.   
The Inn, otherwise known as the “The Hearth and Road Inn” by the weathered sign that hung precariously outside the door, boasted three rooms for visitors, a greedy, sour-faced innkeeper, two bored serving girls and a young boy who will come into the story later.   
All in all, it was not a very impressive settlement, which was what made Chronicler hesitate to even approach the place.   
There was a storm coming. He could tell, not only by the whirling grey clouds and darkening sky, but by the sense in his bones, one that told him to run and seek shelter. He peered up, biting his lips as he looked at the sky. Could he outrun it, and not have to stop at this place? He hoped he could, but the realistic part of him knew he couldn't, so he began to walk towards the building, resigned to a night of no pay and a itchy bed.  
The strangest thing about this storm, he thought as he walked, was that there was no wind. Normally, it would've been there, whipping through the tree tops, rattling the grasses, howling past the buildings. Yet there was no wind, and so the storm was silent.  
He broke into a run as the rain began to fall, one hand clutching his precious leather bag at his side, the other shielding his eyes as he sprinted down the dusty road towards the Inn. In normal circumstances, he would have stopped, taken off his cloak, and wrapped it around his bag, desperate to protect the few pages of paper inside, but there was no time for that, as the rain began to fall faster, from a couple drips to a light shower.   
By the time he reached the small awning of the inn, he had become half wet, hair sticking up oddly, shirt dotted with rain, boots mud-soaked. He took a few seconds to collect himself, taking a deep breath and adjusting his bag, before he opened the door and stepped in.   
For a second he was shocked by familiarity. Memories flooded through his mind, memories of a taproom just like this. Memories of holy branches and candles and a man with bright red hair. Memories of the story, of the beginning the beautiful story, the amazing story- that was, before everything went wrong. His memories shifted into storms and pale eyes and shouts. He could almost see it, right in front of him...  
“Can I help you, sir?   
Chronicler blinked. He had not noticed, when he had entered the room, that there was another person there with him.   
The speaker was a boy of about 16 who had rust coloured curls and warm brown eyes that were crinkled in confusion. He was crouching near the fireplace, shifting around the logs in the fire with an iron poker, and stood up, still holding the poker.   
Chronicler cleared his throat.   
“I'd like a room for the night, please, as well as a meal,” he said distractedly, back to looking around the room. The boy nodded, finally setting the poker down.   
“Suppose you don't have a horse?” He said, looking pointedly at his muddy boots. Chronicler started, then flushed a little.   
“No, no horse, no other baggage.” He stepped forward, digging through his pockets until he finally pulled out two iron jots. “This enough?” He said, cupping in in his palm. The boy nodded and Chronicler handed them over.  
“Rooms are up the stairs,” the boy said, casually pocketing the money and heading over to behind the bar. He barely stood a few feet taller than it, and though the differences were many and various, Chronicler couldn't help but be reminded of Kote, especially the way casual way he picked out different bottles from the sparse collection behind him, as if he’d done it a thousand times.   
“Are you the innkeeper?” Chronicler asked curiously, stopping as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The boy looked up, surprised.   
“No, of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “I just manage the place and hand over the money whenever Tyrien stops by.”   
Chronicler nodded thoughtfully.   
“Well, good for you.” He was halfway up the stairs before he stopped again.   
“When will supper be ready?” He called down.   
“I'll tell you when,” was the faint reply from downstairs. Chronicler sighed, and continued up.   
He picked his room and closed the door behind him. He changed clothes, pulled off his boots, unpacked his belongings onto the tiny table in the corner, then lay on the bed, eyes open but unseeing, lost in memories and thoughts.


	3. Maple, Maypole

Downstairs, the boy with rust coloured hair, the boy also known as Lyiran, fingered the money in his pocket with a rising sense of joy. Not only did he have a customer, he had one who would stay the night. He also seemed a kind man, if distracted and a bit odd, and had given Lyiran two iron jots, several pennies more that the cost for what he had asked.   
He bustled cheerfully, pulling out one of the loaves he had made in the morning and set it near the fire to warm up, getting out a pot and some vegetables and starting a soup, even bring up a few bottles of decent alcohol from the cellar, being in a rather festive mood.  
It was pleasant to be busy, especially during the nasty sort of weather they were having, much preferable to the echoing silence he had sat in this morning. He knew that this would be his only customer for the evening, as the storm was full blast now, but having one was better than none. He hummed as he worked, and the room was filled with the small noises of people and cooking, creating an atmosphere of peace.   
That was, until the door slammed open a second time.   
The man who entered was not at all similar to the man Lyiran had just gotten settled upstairs.   
He wore all dark clothes of a strange fineness; a black long sleeve shirt made of cotton, pants in a dark shade of grey made of a strange, slithery fabric, a cloak dyed a rich midnight blue, hood down, and soft black leather boots that almost looked like something else in the shadowy light. He had long, dark hair, windswept and slightly frizzy, mostly straight except for the ends that bounced around his shoulders, and sitting on his head was a crooked crown of holly leaves. He had a soft, heart-shaped face with delicate, almost childlike features, pale skin and a crooked grin that immediately set Lyiran on edge.   
And his eyes.   
His eyes were a glittering ice blue, lit from within with the glow of lightning and the moon, eyes so bright it almost hurt to look at them, eyes that danced in a wild frenzy and looked like nothing human. Those eyes caught Lyirans gaze for a second and held him there, like a mouse will freeze under a snake gaze, then released him, seeming already bored of that game.   
He practically bounced into the room, seemingly gleeful of the storm outside. He ignored Lyiran’s shocked sputtering and set down his bag on the table with a soft thunk before unfastening his cloak, leaving both there as he began to wander around the room. Soon enough, he spotted the bottles on the bar counter, and his eyes lit up.  
He hurried over to it in a few bouncing strides, and then laughed, a sound that sounded both like tinkling bells and the soft rumble of thunder, if thunder could sound amused. He clapped his hands together with another grin, eyes bright, and then stepped back, like a performer about to begin a show.   
“Maple, maypole,” he said, pointing at the first two bottles in line on the bar. “Catch and carry,” he said, moving down the line again. Bewildered and frightened, part of Lyrian remembered the child's counting rhyme that this man was now using. He had heard it being used for drink line-ups before, but something about the man doing it cast the would-be-humorous situation in a darker light.   
“Ash and ember, elderberry!” He continued, until he was pointing at a small, dark bottle. He frowned, but it was not a frown of disappointment rather than one of curiosity. He picked up the bottle, and tilted it back and forth in his hands as he claimed a seat on the end of the table, watching the liquid inside, and was starting to pull the cork out when Lyiran finally gathered the courage to say something.   
“You can't do that!”   
His shrill voice echoed through the room and the man turned to look at him with a slightly puzzled and bewildered gaze, as if just he had just noticed the boy in room with him.   
“How do you know that?” He said, meeting the boy's brown eyes with his ice blue ones. “You know nothing of me.”  
Lyiran felt his hands tighten into fists and his face flush, and it wasn't from the heat of the fire.  
“I know that you don't have the right to waltz in here and take whatever you please!” He said, voice tight, both furious and terrified at the same time. The man simply shrugged, peering curiously at the stairway.   
“You still do not know me,” he said, sounding bored, but he had set the bottle down. He finally turned back to Lyiran.  
“Look,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “I have seen things you can never imagine. I have done things no man will speak of. I have angered gods and men alike, and survived them both.”   
He looked up, and his eyes as pale as opals.   
“So piss off and let me drink this.”   
He picked up the bottle and continued working at pulling out the cork, Lyiran watching in stunned silence.   
Eventually, he pulled the cork out with a pop, and with a small smile, took a sip of the drink straight from the bottle.   
His face twisted.   
“Blackberry fruit wine,” he complained. “I was hoping for Elderberry.”   
There was silence as the man stood up and walked over to the bar to put the bottle back in the line up.   
“Who are you?” Lyiran asked quietly from the corner.   
The man turned back, eyes now sky blue. Lyiran noted how striking he looked, with his pale eyes and dark hair, all elegant grace and wild and powerful.   
“I'm called Bast,” he said, then wandered back over to the table and picked up his stuff. “So, where are the rooms?”


End file.
